


Charm Offensive

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:32:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So Ralf provides the charm, and I supply the offensive part?" Montoya learns his new role in the Williams team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Charm Offensive

Juan-Pablo Montoya got out of his 'company car' - a BMW M5 - and sauntered towards the hotel that habitually housed the Williams-BMW team and its drivers for testing at nearby Silverstone. He had driven up from his flat in Oxford on a mission from God - or at least, from Patrick Head, as close to a deity in the F1 hierarchy as one could hope to be. After his very public spat with Villeneuve in Montreal, a number of complaints from other drivers, and a heap of bad publicity, Patrick Head had told the young Colombian in no uncertain terms to get his act together.

Juan-Pablo refused to apologise, especially to that big-headed tosser Jacques Villeneuve. And that Eddie Irvine had a nerve, too, saying that he was slow and nothing special. The Colombian kicked a pebble out of his way as he wandered up the drive, the lights of the hotel glimmering out at him in the evening dusk.

"We know you're talented," Head had told him, "but your behaviour is doing you no favours, on and off-track. For the rest of the season, work on your manners. Take a tip or two from Ralf, he knows how to handle people." And he had beamed almost paternally at the young man. "We have a plan to get you some positive media coverage. Call it a charm offensive, if you like..."

"So Ralf provides the charm, and I supply the offensive part?"

Patrick had laughed at this snide comment. "No, no... well, not quite. But perhaps that is where you should start your charm offensive - with your team-mate. You hardly speak two words to him, and don't give me that crap about not understanding German. Both of you speak English."

"English is the language of the mediator, is it not?"

Then Patrick Head had clouted him on the shoulder and sent him on his way to speak with the youngest Schumacher.

Montoya pushed open the door of the hotel and stepped inside, his feet sinking into the thick pile of the carpet as he glanced about. The blonde receptionist brightened considerably at his appearance, her eyes quickly assessing his dove-grey suit and short-cropped black hair.

"Good evening, sir. How may I help you?" she twittered, her smile full of promise.

Juan-Pablo's answering smile was a little twisted. He'd been raised a good Catholic boy - just like Eddie Irvine! - but throughout his career he'd gotten used to women flinging themselves at him like Stinger missiles. It sure as hell was boring, sometimes.

"Ralf Schumacher, please," he said.

The receptionist nodded briefly, picked up the telephone and dialled a number. She waited for a few moments, then hung up. "I'm sorry, sir, he doesn't appear to be in his room," she told him brightly. "Perhaps if you came back tomorrow -"

Juan-Pablo swore in Spanish. He'd not driven all this way just to go back home again. Okay, so Oxford wasn't exactly miles away, but he'd been working himself up to face Ralf all day, and he wasn't going to leave until he'd had his say.

"I am his team-mate, I must speak with him," Montoya tried again, very patiently.

The blonde was freezing him out. "I'm sorry, sir, that's just not possible -"

A door opened and one of the race engineers crossed the hall, greeting Juan-Pablo with a cheery wave. Montoya seized his chance.

"Have you seen Ralf?"

"Uh, yeah," replied the engineer, thinking. "He was playing squash in the sports centre here, looked too much like hard work for me. Are you coming for a drink?"

Juan-Pablo shook his head. "Maybe later." He turned back to the receptionist. "Where is the sports centre?"

He followed her directions, down a narrow corridor lined with heavy beams, rehearsing what he was going to say. Patrick had been right: the two drivers hardly ever spoke to one another. Juan-Pablo realised that the German wanted to be top dog in the team - he would not be German, otherwise - and also recognised that his team-mate was the one serious rival he had. A rival who consistently did better than he did. It was all too easy to hate him, this little paragon with his Blitzkrieg of a big brother.

"Team-mates can be rivals," Patrick Head had told him sternly, "but the team comes first, as you are well aware. You must present a united front. Team-mates should be as close as bedmates in that respect."

Juan-Pablo grinned at the memory. Bedmates? Now why did that idea seem so... interesting? The fight for power was not always on the track, after all. Senses stirring as he approached the sports centre, Montoya pushed open the door, hoping to see Ralf still on the court.

He was disappointed. The place was empty, silent save for his footfalls across the wooden floorboards. A squash racquet and a ball rested on a bench beside two doors marked 'Male' and 'Female' respectively. Juan-Pablo pushed the door of the men's changing-room open and stepped inside

"Ralf?"

Receiving no reply, he moved further inside. It reminded him of school, the cracked floor tiles of dull cream giving way to the white gloss of the wall tiles. Slatted wooden benches ranged around the changing-room, and he was drawn to a hastily discarded pile of clothes at the far side. A pair of trainers, kicked off and partly hidden under a green T-shirt, damp with sweat. A pair of shorts, and then a crumpled pair of jockeys lying beside a towel.

Montoya paused by the clothes, almost unconsciously breathing in the scent of the other man's work-out, spicy and masculine. He slowly became aware of the sound of the showers running, and he turned his head in their direction, considering. The changing-room seemed warm suddenly, and so he shrugged off his jacket and loosened his tie. Wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue, Juan-Pablo wondered whether he should wait for the German to finish his shower, or whether he should go in after him. The desire to see Schumacher naked was too great, and he slipped off his shoes, determined to creep into the shower room, look his fill, then retire back here before Ralf was aware of his presence.

Juan-Pablo tiptoed across the tiled floor and carefully peeked around the wall into the shower room. Again he felt the punch of disappointment: the water was gushing from the shower-head, but there was no sign of the elusive Ralf Schumacher. Wondering where the German could be, Juan-Pablo let his gaze stray around the room. The same arrangement of smooth cream floor tiles led from his hiding-place midway into the room, where they gave way to a narrow drain with a black cover, under which the water gurgled and sloshed. Beneath the shower section itself, the tiles were darker from the application of anti-slip paint. Ten shower-heads were poised along the length of the room, the one closest to Juan-Pablo running with hot water.

From close by, a door banged. Montoya jerked back behind the wall, his heart thudding. For a moment he thought that somebody had entered the changing-room, but a quick backwards glance negated that. He peeped around the wall again, and caught his breath. Ralf Schumacher stood beneath the shower, his face upturned to the spray, his eyes closed in pleasure at the warmth of the water. At his feet was a bar of soap and a small bottle of shampoo. Juan-Pablo could only assume that the German had been in the toilet - hence the bang of the door - but it didn't matter now. He admired the sweep of the naked back presented to him, the glistening streams of water that ran over his shoulders, moulding themselves to the muscles that played beneath the lightly-tanned skin. Schumacher was broad and stocky, his body not as slender as his elder brother's, but this made him all the more appealing. His ass was nicely rounded, but in Juan-Pablo's opinion, his thighs were quite the most delicious things about him: strong and bulky like a rugby-player's.

Juan-Pablo leant against the wall, his lips parted. He willed the German to turn around. Instead, he leant over and picked up the soap, dipping his head beneath the spray as he began to lather up. He shifted stance, raised an arm to rub the soap into his armpit. Juan-Pablo watched, mesmerised, the trail of suds running over Schumacher's ribcage and into the curve of his waist. He wanted to follow that path with his mouth. He edged further around the wall, never taking his eyes from the German.

Ralf ran the soap across his chest and belly, then dropped it to the tiles as he washed his legs. Picking it up again, he half-turned to slide a soapy hand over and between his buttocks. Juan-Pablo bit his lip, his arousal growing by the second with this voyeurism. He moved closer, his body warm with desire and from the heat of the shower. Ralf, still oblivious, discarded the soap and reached for the shampoo. Ducking his head forwards, he tipped a sizeable amount of the green liquid onto his left palm, then rubbed it into his hair. Lather dripped down his neck and fell onto the floor tiles. After a few moments, he tipped his head back and let the water stream through his hair, washing the suds out. His eyes closed tight against the force of the spray, he turned around.

Juan-Pablo stared, rooted to the spot. "Oh."

The front was as good as the back. With his hands running through his hair, Ralf's torso was taut, his chest thrust out over the flat stomach. Soap-suds clung to the arrowing of dark hair that ran from the navel down to his groin. The German dropped one hand from his head to comb through this body hair, slow and sensuous, until his fingers curled about his penis briefly. Then he turned his back again, and reached for the soap once more. Juan-Pablo watched as Ralf turned the bar between his palms then tossed it aside, sliding his hands down the front of his torso until they settled. Montoya closed his eyes briefly, knowing full well what the German was about: soaping his cock, his slippery fingers drawing faint stirrings of pleasure.

Mother of God, but he wanted him.

He opened his eyes and jumped. Schumacher had turned his head and was looking right at him. The German gave him a conspiratorial smile, then went back to washing himself.

Juan-Pablo moved a few steps closer, wondering if he'd really seen that glance of invitation. He was still hesitating fractionally when Ralf turned around again, leaning against the wall, his body offered out beneath the shower, his erection cradled in his right hand. He was smiling at Montoya, his eyes dark with awareness of his appreciative audience.

" _Diablo!_ " murmured Juan-Pablo somewhat breathlessly, reaching for the German. Ralf took his hand and pulled, bringing him into the shower fully-dressed. For a stunned moment, Montoya could do nothing as he registered the hot water running over his hair, trickling into his eyes and over his lips, soaking the shoulders of his shirt and streaming down the front.

"Like what you see?" Ralf whispered.

Juan-Pablo kissed him, the slow warmth of his mouth a pleasing contrast to the heat of the water pattering over them. The German sighed, tucking his body closer to Juan-Pablo's as the Colombian slid his hands over the wet flesh that he'd been watching for the past fifteen minutes, his fingers drifting over planes and hollows that his eyes had already acquainted themselves with. Ralf pushed him back against the wall, feeling the tiny flinch as the Colombian made contact with the cold tiles, then he broke the kiss momentarily to tear at Juan-Pablo's tie. The water had tightened the knot and he quickly gave up, instead fumbling with the buttons on the shirt and ripping them off. Montoya gasped, turning his face from the downpour of the shower as Ralf finally managed to open his shirt. The fine Egyptian cotton had lessened the sting of the spray over his torso, and now that the German had exposed his chest, his skin seemed overly sensitive, shivering in reaction to the bite of the hot water. Ralf licked at the dark shadow of beard along his jaw, saliva mixing with water-droplets, one hand on his shoulder holding him against the wall, the other sliding down to cup the erection that strained beneath the weight of two layers of sodden fabric.

Juan-Pablo played his fingers up and down Schumacher's spine before sliding his hands lower to grasp the firm rounded buttocks, pulling him closer. Ralf broke away, a tension darkening the deep blue of his eyes. He dropped to his knees and began to undo Juan-Pablo's trousers.

"Slow down -" Montoya panted, allowing himself to be tugged down until he was sitting on the hard bumpy tiles, the German curled before him. Ralf gave no sign of hearing his request as his mouth closed possessively around Juan-Pablo's cock.

"Ralf..." he moaned, delighted. He tangled his fingers in his team-mate's hair, wondering at the softness that the stream of water from above had imbued it with. He drew the German up and kissed him, tasting himself upon the other's tongue. Schumacher wrapped his arms about him and they slid sideways onto the floor, splashing into the water that had pooled beneath the shower. Ralf slithered over him, their erections rubbing briefly. Juan-Pablo rolled onto his side, feeling the tug of wet shirt and trousers against his body, then he sat up. Before Ralf could move, he knelt astride the German, all his weight on the inside of his knees as he pinned Schumacher to the floor. He leaned forwards, running his tongue over the wet body below him, catching the same fervour that Ralf had displayed moments ago. Propping himself up with his left hand, Juan-Pablo closed his right around their erections, gripping them together to rub up one against the other. Ralf groaned, arcing his hips upwards to grind his cock harder into Juan-Pablo's.

Warm water sloshed about them, dammed by their bodies, soaking into Montoya's clothes. Juan-Pablo was conscious of the shirt tight across his shoulders, the hard needles of spray on the crown of his head, but all his concentration was on the man below him and the driving force of his lust.

Ralf squirmed, his body at Juan-Pablo's mercy while the Colombian jacked them off in tandem. He reached out and grasped Montoya's thighs, the muscles hard and unyielding. Shivering inside, he closed his eyes and chased the first shimmerings of orgasm.

Juan-Pablo noticed. "Tell me," he growled.

Ralf writhed, a moan escaping his lips. Juan-Pablo's excitement increased; he loved being in control, loved giving pleasure, loved seeing the breaking of that pleasure across the face of his partner. His own orgasm would be triggered by Ralf's, and he wanted to hear the German acknowledge his release.

"Tell me!" he ordered again.

Ralf let go of his thighs and clutched helplessly at Juan-Pablo's sopping wet shirt-tails, wrapping the cloth in his fists. His hips lifted higher, pumping harder; he rolled his head back on the tiled floor, gritting his teeth. The veins in his neck bulged, stood out. Juan-Pablo lowered his head to the body sprung taut beneath him, biting at Ralf's nipples with deliberate force.

"Ah, God -!" Schumacher opened his eyes briefly, meeting Montoya's searching look, then he turned his gaze upwards, staring blindly at the shower-head high above him. He groaned. "Mm. Oh God. Harder. Do it harder. Yes. Yes."

Juan-Pablo did as he was told, watching the German's body react in response. Ralf snapped his head from side to side, his eyelids flickering, his mouth working on unspoken pleas. His brow furrowed in concentration, his entire body bound tight around an ecstasy struggling to burst forth. "Please. Please, oh God, Juan-Pablo, I -" Ralf babbled, his voice cracked and ragged over the pounding of the water. His cock jerked against Juan-Pablo's, and spurted semen over his belly and chest. Montoya closed his eyes tight until little lights danced across his vision, then he came, crashing over the edge into the sweet heavy darkness of drowning.

Juan-Pablo tilted his head back, letting the warm water kiss his upturned face. For some moments he remained thus, motionless and lost in the echoes of pleasure. Then the ache in his thighs and across his shoulders stirred him, and he slid down onto the floor alongside Ralf. The German blinked, came alive, and turned his head to look at him.

"Your clothes are ruined."

Juan-Pablo smiled, lazy and satisfied. "So they are."

Ralf laughed, a small amazed sound in the confines of the shower room. "Is this what Patrick meant by your 'charm offensive'?"

Montoya sat up, shaking water from his head. "You know about that?"

Ralf smiled up at him, eyes glinting. "Oh, yes. You provide the charm, and I supply the offensive part... Something like that?"

Juan-Pablo grinned. "Something like that."


End file.
